Trey's Secret

by Lois Faye Dyer

  “Sounds good.” He mentally raised his eyebrows when she quoted the salary and reined in the relief he felt at being offered somewhere to live. With his lack of finances, plus zero references, finding a rental would have been difficult.

  “Great.” She walked out from behind the bar. “Let me show you your new home.”

  They crossed the room and exited through an archway into a square hall. Lori paused to poke her head inside the open door of the restaurant’s kitchen. “Ralph,” she called. “I’m going upstairs for a few minutes — will you keep an eye on the bar?”

  “No problem,” a deep-bass voice replied.

  “Thanks. I won’t be long.”

  Just down the hall from the kitchen entry, a flight of stairs led upward. Lori started up the steps with Trey behind. Two treads below her, his taller height put his eyes at the level of her nape. Each step she climbed swung the silky length of her ponytail back and forth, brushing the bare skin above the tank top that ended at the dead center of her shoulder blades. There was something about the way the thick swathe of pale hair kept in time with the gentle sway of her hips that urged him to reach out, wrap an arm around her waist, and pull her back against him.

  Fortunately they reached the landing at the top of the stairs before he gave in to temptation.

  “Here we are.” Lori pushed open a door and went inside.

  Relieved by the diversion, Trey followed her and realized that although she’d called it a “room” earlier, it was actually a studio apartment. A queen-size bed took up one corner, half-hidden behind a waist-high bookcase divider that held a TV. A small sofa sat against one wall, directly opposite.

  Upper and lower kitchen cabinets with a sink and a small refrigerator made up a compact kitchen area where a coffeemaker and toaster sat on the counter to the right of the stove. It was Spartan but efficient.

  “This is the bathroom.” Lori leaned in to switch on the light. “The washer and dryer are in the corner.”

  Trey caught a quick glimpse of a basic white sink with a shower stall and the stacked appliances.

  “I had the place cleaned this morning and it has everything you need.” She slid open a closet door next to the bathroom. The tidy interior had drawers at one end, shelves in the center and a pole with hangers for clothing. “The bed linens and towels are stored in here.”

  She glanced around the apartment. “I hope you’ll be comfortable. It’s small and the cooking facilities are almost nonexistent. Most folks who stay here use the kitchen downstairs.”

  “So I can raid the restaurant’s refrigerator at night if I want?” he asked.

  “As long as the cook is okay with it. Ralph is particular about his kitchen. In fact,” she said gravely, “he considers it his kingdom so I’d recommend you be very nice to him if you want to be allowed in there.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” he responded, just as seriously. “I’ll do that.”

  “Good.” She gave the room a last look. “Well, I guess that’s it. Your first shift is tonight from six p.m. to midnight. Saturday is normally our busiest night of the week but most of our customers will be at the rodeo in the next county this weekend. The annual celebration includes a beer garden and Nashville headliner entertainment so we don’t have a band booked and we’re closing early tonight. Kari and I will be working, too, so it’s a good time for you to get used to the layout. I need to get back to work. Would you like to come with me and meet Ralph?”

  “If he’s the man I need to schmooze in order to get food, then I definitely want to meet him.”

  Dimples dented her cheeks when she laughed. “Have you eaten lunch?” she asked over her shoulder as he followed her back downstairs.

  “No.” Nor breakfast and maybe not dinner last night either, judging by how hollow my stomach feels.

  “I’ll introduce you to Ralph as soon as I check on the bar. We’re not officially open for another fifteen minutes but sometimes locals drop in early.”

  The smell of roasting beef mixed with the tang of onion and barbecue sauce drifted out of the kitchen doorway as they passed. Trey’s stomach rumbled. He hoped the bar was empty.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

  An older woman was perched on one of the blue upholstered stools, knees crossed and one backless high heel swinging. Her fingernails tapped an impatient tattoo on the polished surface of the counter.

  “Where have you been, Lori?” Her voice was sharp. “There was no one on duty when I came in. Anybody could have walked in off the street and emptied the cash register.”

  “There’s no money in the till, Mom, or I wouldn’t have left the door unlocked. I was upstairs, showing our new bartender the apartment.” Lori’s voice was even but Trey saw the subtle tightening around her mouth and the barely visible tensing of her body. “This is Troy Jones. Troy, this is my mother, Risa.”

  The older woman stared at him critically, not bothering to hide her negative assessment. “What happened to you?” She pointed at his head.

  “Somebody hit me,” he responded.

  “Obviously,” she said shortly. “The question is, were you starting the fight or were you stopping it?”

  “I don’t remember,” he said honestly.

  “Humph. We don’t need a troublemaker,” she said to her daughter, clearly dismissing him. “We need a man who’ll help the bouncer stop fights, not start them.”

  “Troy was robbed, Mother,” Lori replied. She rounded the end of the bar, took out a glass and poured ginger ale over ice for her mother. “That’s how he got the bump.”

  “Robbed?” One dark brow winged upward. “Here in Granger?”

  “No, ma’am,” Trey said. “On the highway about a hundred miles south.”

  “Well, thank goodness it didn’t happen here,” Risa said. “Crime is rare in this town and we want it to stay that way.”

  Troy wondered with amusement if she blamed him for being robbed. Clearly, she wasn’t going to forgive him for having been rapped on the head in the process.

  Her gaze sharpened. “And what do you mean you don’t remember?” she demanded. “Why don’t you know what happened?”

  “The doctor tells me I have some short-term memory loss caused by the blow to my head. One of the things I can’t remember is what led up to my getting this cut and bump.”

  “Humph.” She eyed him suspiciously. “So you staggered in here after getting clobbered and conned my daughter’s sympathetic nature into giving you a job and a place to live?”

  “Mother.” Lori sounded exasperated. “He didn’t stagger — he walks perfectly fine. And he’s clearly an experienced bartender.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he’s been working at the Four Buttes Saloon, and Bill gave him a five-star recommendation. In fact, Bill says he’s letting us borrow Troy only until his place is remodeled and then Bill made him promise to go back to work at the Four Buttes.”

  “Humph, he’ll likely want to stay here. It’s much nicer than that old place of Bill’s.” Risa sniffed. “And if he’s as good as you apparently believe he is, we might want to keep him on.”

  “We’ll see. I’m glad we’ve resolved the issue,” Lori said with a wry smile. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, I’m taking Troy next door to introduce him to Ralph.”

  “Don’t be gone long,” her mother said. “You know I don’t wait on customers.”

  “Yes,” Lori said dryly. “I know.”

  Troy nodded goodbye to Risa, but she’d already hopped down from her stool. Drink in one hand, she crossed the room to the jukebox. A moment later, the gravelly voice of Willy Nelson filled the saloon.

  Ralph was a man with salt-and-pepper hair, black eyes and enough extra pounds on his five-ten frame to declare he enjoyed his own food. Trey took to him at first sight.

  He also liked the kitchen with its overhead rack of gleaming pans. The big room, crowded with counters, huge grill, stove and baking ovens, resonated with a powerful feeling of famili
arity and comfort. And the aromas wafting about made him realize he was beyond hungry.

  “So, do you cook, Troy?” Ralph asked, continuing to knead bread dough on the flour-sprinkled counter.

  Troy picked up a sharp knife, hefting the weight, and glimpsed a swift image of himself chopping scallions. “Do I cook?” he said slowly, testing the words. “I think I do.”

  “You think you do?” Ralph’s dark eyebrows raised. “Don’t you know?”

  “Yeah,” Trey said, more sure of himself. “I definitely cook.”

  “Good. When I need help, I’ll draft you,” Ralph said with satisfaction. “Like right now. Would you prep the chives, there on your left? They’re going in the quiche for the Library Society brunch today. You can use the cutting board and drop them in the bowl.”

  “Sure.” Trey washed his hands before placing a handful of chives on the board and beginning to chop.

  “You don’t know what you’ve started, Troy,” Lori said, looking amused. “Ralph is a tyrant in the kitchen.”

  “Not true,” Ralph quickly denied, his big hands deftly twisting and patting the dough before slipping it into bread pans. “I just don’t have patience with incompetent help.”

  Lori rolled her eyes heavenward and laughed out loud. “And that covers ninety-nine percent of the people I hire.”

  “It’s not easy to find good kitchen help,” Ralph agreed with a chuckle. “But I can tell by the way our new bartender handles my knife that he knows what he’s doing.”

  Startled, Trey realized he was wielding the sharp utensil with easy expertise and had reduced the bundle of chives to a bowlful of evenly cut pieces. Good to know. Maybe I own a restaurant in my real life.

  “Be careful, Troy,” Lori cautioned. “Or you’ll find yourself working another shift for Ralph in here as well as your regular hours behind the bar.”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all if I get to sample the food,” he responded.

  “That reminds me, Ralph. Troy hasn’t had lunch. Can he raid the refrigerator?”

  “Sure, he can eat in exchange for the chive chopping.” Ralph winked at her.

  “I’ll leave you two, then,” Lori said. “I haven’t finished getting the bar ready to open. You’ll be joining Kari and me a little before six tonight, Troy. If you have any questions before then, I’m usually around.”

  “Thanks.” Trey stared after her slim figure as she hurried out of the kitchen.

  “She’s quite a woman,” Ralph commented.

  Trey’s gaze met the older man’s shrewd, knowing eyes.

  “I worked for her daddy before he died,” Ralph continued. “Keeled over from a massive heart attack the year Lori graduated from college. She had big plans to work as a commercial artist in Chicago or New York, maybe Los Angeles. Instead, she came back to Granger and took over running this place so her kid sister and brother would have a decent life.”

  “What about her mother?” Troy asked. “Why didn’t she take over the business?”

  “Risa was hit hard by Doug’s death — the whole family was, of course, but the kids were really worried about their mom. It’s only in the last year she seems to be doing better. Plus, Risa never did have the temperament to manage a bar and restaurant. In fact, I’m pretty sure she would have sold out to the first bidder if Doug’s will hadn’t left the business to all four of them equally. The kids didn’t want to sell and even if they had, the money wouldn’t have lasted long.”

  Ralph slid the bread pans into the big ovens, then bent to lift a box of lettuce onto the counter. “Without Lori, the family would have been dead broke in six months and all of us would probably have been out of work. So you can see,” he said, beginning to rinse the greens at the stainless steel sink, “why we’re kinda protective of her.” He eyed Trey. “Get my meaning?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Trey drawled. “Loud and clear.”

  “Good.” Ralph nodded briskly. “You’re welcome to raid the refrigerator, if you want. There’s some prime rib left from last night if you’re in the mood for a beef sandwich.”

  It appeared he’d passed some sort of test with Ralph, and Trey headed thankfully for the fridge.

  The medication he’d taken at the clinic was wearing off by the time Trey left the kitchen and went upstairs to the apartment. His body ached all over and his head pounded, the site sore where the doctor had put in the row of stitches. The door was unlocked, the keys lying on the counter. He took down a glass from the cabinet and filled it at the kitchen tap, tossing two more pain pills down his throat and chasing them with cold water.

  Fortunately, the apartment had a small window-mounted air conditioner that was sufficient to cool the place to a bearable temperature.

  He stripped off his clothes and turned on the shower. After he scrubbed thoroughly, he let the spray beat against the tender muscles in his shoulders and back until the water went cold.

  Then he dried off, threw all his clothes into the washer and padded naked into the main room. The linens on the bed were blessedly cool and fresh; he set the alarm for 3:00 p.m. and crawled between the sheets. He was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  When the buzzer went off, he dragged himself out of bed but he had to splash cold water on his face before he was truly awake. By four o’clock his clothes were dry and he was back downstairs. He stopped in the kitchen doorway.

  “Hey, Ralph.”

  The burly chef glanced up. “Hey, yourself.”

  Trey strolled into the kitchen, carefully skirting the busy crew at the long center counter. “Any chance I can get something to eat?”

  “Sure.” Ralph pointed his knife at the stool shoved beneath the counter at the quiet end. “Have a seat. Are you particular or do you want a plate of the house special?”

  “What’s the house special?”

  “Prime rib with garlic mashed potatoes, almond green beans and a small dinner salad.”

  Trey’s stomach growled with anticipation. “I’ll have the special.”

  “Good choice.” Ralph gestured one of his assistants closer. “Mary, get Troy here an order of the prime rib, will you. And something to drink — what do you want, Troy?”

  “Ice water will be perfect.” He smiled at the middle-aged woman. Moments later, she set a steaming plate in front of him, followed in quick succession by a salad bowl, cutlery wrapped in a snowy-white napkin, and a stemmed water glass.

  She nodded at his murmured thanks and left him to eat.

  Seated at one end of the big kitchen, Trey could observe without being intrusive, which suited him just fine. He wanted to know as much as possible about the people he’d be working with, especially Ralph. He’d instinctively liked the chef. Watching him deal with his assistants further confirmed Trey’s original assessment that Ralph was shrewd, efficient, firm without being obnoxious, and clearly respected by his staff.

  And a hell of a good cook.

  By four-thirty, Trey had finished eating, thanked Ralph, and left the busy kitchen. He walked next door and took a seat at one end of the long bar.

  “Afternoon. What can I get you?” The middle-aged man behind the bar had a pleasant face and graying hair.

  “Just ice water, thanks.”

  “I haven’t seen you in here before,” the bartender said as he set a glass in front of Trey. “You new in town?”

  “As of this morning — and I start work here tonight.”

  “No kidding — you must be the guy Lori’s been expecting for the last few days.”

  “That’s right. Troy Jones.” He held out his hand.

  “Butch Roth.” He shook Trey’s hand and grinned, gesturing around the quiet room. “You picked a good day to start. It’s always pretty empty during rodeo weekend.”

  “That’s what Lori said. I thought I’d come in early and hang around, sort of get the feel of the crowd.”

  “Good plan.” Butch nodded sagely. “You won’t have any trouble with the customers. We get a good mix of ranchers and townsfolk i
n here, nice people.”

  “Is this the only bar in town?” Trey asked.

  “We’re the only one with a first-class restaurant and Saturday-night entertainment,” Butch replied. “There’s a tavern out near the highway but it’s small and caters to a different crowd.”

  “Oh, yeah. I think Bill might have mentioned it — is it called the Bull ’n’ Bash?” Trey pretended to take a drink of water but he watched Butch’s face with sharp interest.

  “Nope. The Blue Moon. Been there since the fifties and it looks like nobody’s painted it since the year it was built.” Butch smiled and shook his head. “We should go there some night, if you’ve a hankering for rough company and a guaranteed bar brawl.”

  “No, thanks.” Trey laughed and the two chatted casually for a while until Butch was called away by a young couple seated farther down the polished bar.

  So the Bull ’n’ Bash named in the mysterious letter isn’t in Granger. Disappointed, Trey sipped his water, swinging around on the seat to study the room. A wide doorway at the far end of the room opened into a space where he could see several pool tables.

  That looks familiar. He instinctively knew he played pool. Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember where. But his gut also told him he was good at it.

  He scanned the saloon. A neon sign advertising Moosehead lager hung above the archway leading to the hall and the restaurant beyond, while a trophy-size deer head with an impressive rack of antlers dominated the wall near the exit. So many things about the bar’s interior felt familiar to him — from the deer’s antlers and the green felt on the pool tables to the amber glass in the beer sign, the throaty bass of the jukebox and the gleaming countertop.

  He checked out what he could see of the long alley behind the bar where Butch was currently the sole employee. It, too, felt comfortable. So did the wooden rack above the well that held various sizes of stemmed glassware, hung upside down and easily accessible from below.

  He sipped his ice water and eavesdropped while customers asked Butch for drinks, making his own mental list of ingredients and mixing rules. Then he watched Butch fill the orders for margaritas, Long Island iced teas, Acapulco Zombies, frozen daiquiris, MacNaughton’s on the rocks, and a long roster of other cocktails.